


Being Forward, Or How To Impress A Potential Suitor

by lilithqueen



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: AU, F/M, Human AU, regency au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:31:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5129459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Regency AU none of you asked for, but the one I'm going to write anyway.</p><p>In the Year of our Lord 1811, the fair city-state of Mechanicsburg is at peace. Ruled over by the wise Lady Heterodyne, she has hammered out an alliance between her, Baron Wulfenbach to the west, and the young Storm King to the southeast. Her elite Jaeger forces, feared and renowned throughout Europa, are left with actual free time. One of them decides to use it to take the hat he won in a bet, meets the former-hat-owner's granddaughter, and sparks fly (as well as wooden spoons). But he has a reputation, and one which might stand in the way of our lovers' happiness...</p><p>(not to mention the involvement of his truly awful family)</p><p>An "everyone's human" AU starring soiled reputations, pretty dresses, crossdressing cavalry lieutenants, and some highly embarrassing conversations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Being Forward, Or How To Impress A Potential Suitor

The day Captain Maxim Dyatlov of Her Ladyship’s 10th Light Jaegercavalry rode into town should have been accompanied by a trumpet fanfare, or at the very least by terrified peasants screaming. For Zeuxippe and her grandfather, it was a Tuesday, and not a very exciting Tuesday at that. The Red Horse Tavern had been open every day in the ten years since her grandfather had retired from the army and decided to build it, and Zeuxippe had been waiting tables for almost all of them.

The tavern door opening with a bang wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Zeuxippe barely even looked up as their latest customer (tall, male, long dark hair, brilliant crimson coat) stormed up to the bar, but when she heard him snarl, “Sergeant Themiscyra, I’ve come to collect on those debts,” she paused on her way out of the kitchen and turned to look.

Her grandpa calmly folded his arms, watching the man levelly. “You’re a cheat and a liar, Dyatlov.”

Dyatlov leaned on the bar, glowering down at him. Her grandpa wasn’t a tall man; the captain had over a foot of height and easily fifty pounds of weight over him. Judging by the sword at his belt, he’d come prepared for a fight. “I won those games fair and square; I’ve given you plenty of time to come up with the money you owe me.”

“Maxim, you son of a—“

“And the hat. The hat is mine.”

Her grandpa glowered back up at him, putting one hand up as if to reassure himself that the hat in question—red wool felt with gold trim—was still there. “The money’s yours, but you can have that hat when you take it from me fairly—or are you not the gentleman you say you are?”

Dyatlov snarled, one hand on his sword hilt. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me; I say you’re not a gentleman.”

“And I say _you_ are a coward—“

Oh, that was just enough! He could be arrogant and rude all he liked; he was hardly the first unpleasant customer in the Horse. But nobody called her grandfather a coward—why, he’d served in the cavalry under Old Lord Heterodyne, and beaten Wulfenbach back to his side of the mountains, and had the medals to prove it! Zeuxippe strode forward, rage in her soul; before she could decide whether it was a good idea or not, she’d brought her wooden spoon down hard on Captain Dyatlov’s sword hand. “You are being unseasonably _rude_ , sir!”

Her grandpa winced. “Zeuxippe, child…”

Dyatlov jolted more out of surprise than pain, staring at her with an expression of bafflement that seemed to shift into something like contriteness as his blue eyes softened. “…I beg your pardon, miss. How would you have me make amends?”

She glared up at him, pushing back the brief flicker of a thought that mused that, really, the captain was quite handsome when he wasn’t glaring at anyone. “I demand you apologize to my grandfather. He is the furthest thing from a coward!”

He looked stricken, nodding a little stiffly before making an elegant incline—not quite a bow—in her grandfather’s direction. “My words were undeserved; I hope you accept my apology. You can keep your money.” Pausing, he added, “But I _will_ have that hat.”

“Oh?” The raised eyebrow spoke volumes. “Are you planning to cheat in another game of dice? Challenge an old man to a duel, maybe?”

Dyatlov shook his head firmly. “I hear that you’re a fine cook now. They say you can make any dish a customer can name.”

“…That’s true.”

Dyatlov’s smile was triumphant, but not cruel. “Then I would like to order a Prince of Sturmhalten’s Big Bet. To go.”

“…” Slowly, for the first time in Zeuxippe’s memory, her grandfather reached up and took his hat off, shoving it across the bar. “ _Here_.”

As Zeuxippe found herself adding “well-read” to “handsome” in the so-far-very-short list of Captain Dyatlov’s good points, she was utterly taken aback when the captain turned to her and sketched out a genuine bow. “My most sincere apologies, miss, for this inconvenience. Might I call upon you at some point?”

She opened her mouth. Stared at him. Closed it again. “I—we haven’t been introduced.” It was a stupid thing to say, but somehow it was the only thing that came to mind.

Her grandpa huffed grumpily. “Captain Dyatlov, my granddaughter Miss Zeuxippe Themiscyra. Zeuxippe, Captain Maxim Dyatlov, 10th Light Jaegercavalry and an untrustworthy cheating bastard.”

“You’re just jealous because I outsmarted you, old man.” The captain was smiling as he settled his new hat on his head—grinning, really—and it was infectious. She felt her own lips twitch. “When may I expect your answer, Miss Themiscyra?”

Her face burned; she was distantly aware of her grandfather sighing and dropping his head into his hands, but most of her brain was abruptly very focused on the fact that a captain of the Jaegers—the Heterodynes’ most (in)famous forces, sent in where regular troops weren’t brave or bloodthirsty enough to do the job—had just bowed before her and asked to call upon her. And was gazing at her hopefully. And she’d hit him with a _spoon_. “…Um.” She swallowed hard, looking up into his eyes, and felt her blush intensify. “I do believe that’s quite forward of you, sir.”

He actually looked…well, had he not been a feared and respected cavalry captain she might have said he looked _embarrassed_. “I suppose it is. Forgive me, I won’t trouble you further.”

As he turned to go, she blurted out, “The Neugebauers are having a dance on the 5th, at 8 PM. Will you attend?”

He smiled at her over his shoulder. “It would be my pleasure.”


	2. My Reputation Precedes Me

“Zeuxippe! Oh, you look lovely—is that a new frock?”

Zeuxippe smiled at the approach of her friends, adjusting her lace shawl. And she’d been worried her blue dress would be out of style! “I’m afraid not; I only altered the trim a little.”

Anneliese tilted her head, studying the trim in question. She herself sported a diaphanous pale peach gown with a neckline that just skirted the edge of propriety; Zeuxippe silently predicted that it would give old Frau Neugebauer fits. “It looks well on you. I think the new styles suit you better than they do me.”

Maria huffed, tapping Anneliese’s arm lightly with her fan. “You shouldn’t say such things! I predict you’ll leave the dance with no fewer than three proposals.”

“Oh, I hope so. Did you hear, Domnica, that the Jaegers are in town?” Anneliese sighed happily. “I wonder if any of them will be at the ball; they look terribly dashing in their uniforms.”

Domnica turned pink, clashing awfully with her pale green dress. “Are they? I’m sure I hadn’t noticed.”

As they began the walk to the Neugebauers’ manor—it wasn’t far, and the night was warm and balmy—Zeuxippe fanned herself lightly. She wouldn’t necessarily have called Captain Dyatlov dashing, but… “Oh, yes, one of them came to the tavern the other day while I was working. Captain Dyatlov of the 10th Light Jaegercavalry, I believe.”

Anneliese gasped. “Is he as handsome as they say he is?”

“ _I_ heard he’s a terrible rake. Most indiscreet about it, too!”

“ _Only_ a rake? I heard he has a woman in every city from here to Vienna!”

Domnica bit her lip. “He didn’t do anything untoward, did he?”

Zeuxippe was grateful that she’d brought her fan along; it was terribly useful to hide the redness of her face. “No! Well…not truly. He came in to settle a debt my grandfather owed, and he _was_ a bit rude, honestly, but he soon apologized. After I, ah. Hithimwithaspoon. He was a perfect gentleman after that! Not a rake at all.”

Domnica made a choking sound. “You did _what?_ ”

“…I, uh. Hit him with a spoon.” She kept her eyes on the street as they walked. “He called my grandfather a coward! I simply couldn’t let that stand.”

Maria’s eyes were round and worried. “And he wasn’t angry? They say the Jaegers all have terrible tempers—why, I heard one of them using the most dreadful language in public!”

There were many words she could have used to describe his reaction, but “angry” wasn’t one of them. She shook her head. “He was very apologetic for his bad manners. And he, ah…asked to call on me. I didn’t say yes! But I do believe he will be at the dance.”

Anneliese frowned at her. “You should have told us sooner! We could have helped you with your gown and your hair, made it a certainty that he will fall in love with you instantly instead of merely a possibility.”

Domnica looked appalled. “Anni! Don’t tell me you’re encouraging this—this _flirtation_.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m certainly not saying a man of his reputation would make a good husband! But tell me truly, Zeuzi—isn’t he handsome?”

Now she was most certainly red, and walked a little faster. The gates of the Neugebauer manor were just ahead; they began to pass carriages slowing down to let the guests out. “He’s not unattractive. Rather an aristocratic-looking face.” With a very nice smile, not that she was thinking about that.

“Well, there you go!” Anneliese patted her arm. “One handsome man falling hopelessly in love with you will surely lure others, and you may take your pick.”

Still, Domnica wasn’t giving up. “Zeuxippe, please tell me you won’t dance with him! Everyone knows he’s a hardened libertine. Think of your reputation.”

She fanned herself a little more. “I…one dance can’t _hurt_ , can it?”

Domnica made an indistinct grumbling noise under her breath.

They’d reached the gates now, and the lantern light spilled out over men and women in their finest clothing. Zeuxippe felt a little underdressed as they wove through the crowd to where the doors stood open to receive them; she was almost sure that several of the women they passed were wearing real diamonds.

There was a group of young men in the black-and-red uniforms of the Jaegercavalry loitering near the door. She froze. The tallest one was Captain Dyatlov (wearing the hat he’d gotten from her grandfather, no less), and he grinned as he spotted them. “Miss Themiscyra!”

She dropped her neatest curtsy. “Captain Dyatlov, how nice to see you again.”

He bowed politely in response, but she saw his eyes gleam cheerfully. “No spoons this time?”

Her face heated. “Ah—no.”

“What a shame.” He gestured to his companions. “Might I have the honor of your friends’ names?”

She curtsied again; it was unnecessary, but it hid the fiery blush that raced across her face at being teased so familiarly. “Of course. This is Miss Ionescu—Miss Klagenfurt—and Miss Ilie.” Her friends dropped into varying degrees of polite curtsies; Anneliese was grinning, blast her. Maria blushed as soon as Dyatlov looked at her.

And then the captain’s eyes were back on Zeuxippe. “May I present Lieutenants Moraru and Vasilescu of the 10th Light Jaegercavalry?”

Both men bowed deeply; Zeuxippe took a moment to study them. Moraru was shorter and broader than his captain with a serious expression, but he was appealing in a blunt, square-jawed way. His blond hair was in need of a trim. Vasilescu was short (only a little taller than Zeuxippe herself) with unfortunate freckles and reddish hair, but his smile looked genuine.

Domnica smiled back at him. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, no, we’re the ones that should be honored.” Lieutenant Vasilescu’s eyes gleamed as he looked her up and down. “Captain Dyatlov said that there were beautiful girls in this town, but he didn’t mention such radiance! Please do say you’ll dance at least one set with me, Miss Ionescu?”

Domnica flushed, but nodded. “You may have _one_ dance, Lieutenant.”

“Even a single dance with such a lovely woman will be a memory I will carry with me forever.”

As the corporal offered her his arm to lead her up the few steps to the reception room, Zeuxippe took advantage of Domnica turning away from her to roll her eyes. She was conscious of Captain Dyatlov doing the same thing with much less subtlety, enough that Vasilescu turned to inform him, “You’re just jealous.”

He went delicately pink. “I beg your pardon?”

Vasilescu’s grin had edges. “Your Miss Themiscyra hasn’t promised _you_ a dance.”

Zeuxippe’s jaw dropped. The barefaced cheek of the man! Lieutenant Moraru was leading Maria up the steps, and Anneliese needed no help. She was suddenly very aware that the only members of their little group left were herself and Captain Dyatlov, who was eying her out of the corner of his eye as though he expected a slap. She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Ah…shall we?”

He offered his arm. “May I?”

She took it, trying not to think about the warmth of him through the fabric of his coat. “Thank you, Captain.”

He relaxed a little as they ascended the step. “I did not behave very well when we met, I’m afraid. Would it be too rude of me to ask you for a dance?”

Her heart hammered in her chest. “…It…would not be too rude, no.”

He was smiling as he cast a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “I daresay you would find something to chastise me with if it was.”

Really, the man was uncommonly bold. Zeuxippe thought she should be offended, but it made something in her ease instead. The banter felt…comfortable, like dealing with a friendly customer at the tavern. “I do have a fan, sir.”

As they stepped into the Neugebauer’s hall, his chuckle sent a rush of warmth through her. “Then I will be on my very best behavior.”

Frau Neugebauer and her eldest daughter Elisabeta were greeting each new arrival; Zeuxippe managed to take her hand off Captain Dyatlov’s arm and step away just before the women reached them. Elisabeta clasped Zeuxippe’s hands as though they were old friends. “Miss Themiscyra! How wonderful to see you here, and in such illustrious company.”

Drat, she was too slow. A blush spread up her face as she replied, “It’s been a terribly long time.”

“It has!” Elisabeta turning away from her to curtsey deeply to Captain Dyatlov—getting a bow in return—should have been a relief, but Zeuxippe felt oddly nettled. “And Captain Dyatlov, it’s an _honor_ to have you and your regiment here. Will you be staying long?”

“As long as Lady Heterodyne doesn’t send us back into the fray, Miss Neugebauer, I find I prefer to remain here. The company is _much_ better.” He was still smiling at Elisabeta, but his gaze flicked over to Zeuxippe.

Still crimson, she edged away to join a passing drift of other guests. Domnica was waving her over, right? Right. No sooner did she select a chair tucked away behind a potted shrub then she became aware of whispered conversations taking place on the other side.

“Did you see? Captain Dyatlov!”

“…even more handsome than I heard…”

“A war hero. He helped bring the Lady Heterodyne to us!”

“…walking in with Miss Themiscyra, I wonder if she knows—“

“I wonder if she’d care if she did. Did you see the way he looked at her?”

“I wish he looked at _me_ like that.”

As the music swelled for the first dance (a minuet, begun by Frau Neugebauer and her husband), Zeuxippe fidgeted. It was one thing to be, well, _aware_ that Captain Dyatlov was an attractive man, and another thing entirely to hear him be such a blatant topic of discussion by her peers. And he had smiled at her, and teased her in the manner of a friend. It was…charming. On the other hand, he was a known rake. Probably he did that to every moderately attractive young woman. It was nothing worth considering—except in the matter of her reputation. She resolved to be politely friendly to him, nothing more.

Elisabeta’s younger sister Antonia leaned around the shrub, eyes sparkling when she caught sight of her. “Miss Themiscyra! How _ever_ did you meet our dashing captain?”

She sat up a little straighter. “Ah, he came into the tavern while I was working. To settle a matter of business with my grandfather, you see.”

“Hmm.” Antonia looked thoughtful, an expression Zeuxippe had learned to dread on her pretty face. “Only business?”

Warily, she nodded. “Mm-hmm.”

“Oh, such a shame. When you came in on his arm, we all thought he might be courting you! You know, that a man with a past like his might finally be settling down and becoming respectable at last. I’m sure you must be devastated.” She shrugged carelessly. “But I’m sure you’ll find a husband more…suitable to your station.”

The music paused; as the minuet ended and a waltz began, Lieutenant Vasilescu separated himself from the dance floor and strode over to them. To Zeuxippe’s shock, he bowed deeply not to Antonia, but to her. “May I have this dance, Miss Themiscyra?”

She rose, leaving her reticule on the seat behind her, and was acutely aware of Antonia’s eyes on her as the corporal led her to the dance floor. “You certainly may, sir.”

It was a little strange, dancing with a man who was only a bit taller than her, but Lieutenant Vasilescu was a skilled dancer and his hand was light and easy where it rested on her waist. As they whirled, neatly avoiding another couple, he leaned in to remark, “Captain Dyatlov is really quite taken with you.”

Zeuxippe knew she was blushing. “Is he, sir? We’ve only just met.”

The lieutenant’s grin was bright. “He simply would not shut up about your first meeting. I can’t say I’m surprised; you’re not only the most beautiful girl here, you’re surely the bravest one he’s met. He refuses to say, but _I_ think he was quite serious when he asked to call on you.”

She huffed, glancing away. “From what I have heard about him, I believe your captain is very seldom serious.”

“Ah, if you heard him tell the tale of you and that wooden spoon of yours, you would not doubt my words!” Vasilescu dropped his voice to a murmur, such that she had to lean in scandalously close to hear him. “Wouldn’t you like to see him jealous? Dance the next dance with me as well.”

Oh, _goodness_. A single dance was one thing, but two—why, that was serious! Not as serious as _three_ dances, mind you, but… “Uh. I think not, sir.”

“May I cut in?”

She looked up into Captain Dyatlov’s face and wondered if it was actually possible to faint from blushing too hard. Mustering her vocal cords, she managed a quiet “…You may.”

As soon as Vasilescu handed her off (grinning like a fiend; she thought several very uncomplimentary things in his direction), Dyatlov pulled her to him with surprising gentleness. “I must apologize for my lieutenant’s forwardness.”

She swallowed. This close to him, she was acutely aware of his warmth and the scent of his cologne. “He was not so bad, sir. I’ve heard worse in the tavern on winter evenings.”

He made a quiet little sound of disapproval. “Are you quite sure? I could duel him, if you’d like.” After a moment, he added, “And those louts in the tavern.”

Well. Nobody had ever offered _that_ before. She shook her head. “That will not be necessary, sir. Thank you.” Something made her add, “Besides, you have seen me in the tavern. They don’t dare to be so rude twice.”

That made him chuckle as they whirled; somehow, it felt natural to let him tug her a little closer than strictly necessary. “Of that, I have no doubt at all. Has no one ever told you that you’re a very brave young woman?”

She ducked her head, suddenly unable to focus her gaze any higher than his chest. “You, a hero of the battle of Geister, calling me brave? You flatter me unduly, sir—I’m only a tavern wench.”

Dyatlov flinched minutely. “Whoever told you that? Miss Themiscyra, I would be delirious with joy if half my men were as bold and honorable as you.”

She looked up and gasped a little as the words struck her, feeling her heart race. The expression on his face was one of utmost sincerity. “Captain Dyatlov. Now _you_ are being too forward.”

A faint tinge of pink brushed his pale cheeks. “I apologize.”

“Hrmph! Apology accepted.” She couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at the corners of her lips, though. “Especially as you can hardly duel yourself to protect my delicate sensibilities.”

“…Hrm, yes, that does present a problem.” His eyes shone down at her. “However shall I make it up to you?”

The waltz ended and another began. She ignored the pounding of her heart and met his gaze directly. “You have yet to actually ask me for an entire dance, sir.”

Grinning, he bowed. “How negligent of me. May I have this dance, Miss Themiscyra?”

The grin was infectious—rather crass on a young lady, she knew, but she couldn’t help but grin back. “You most certainly may.”


	3. Conversations In And About Behavior In A Tavern

Even days after the ball, Zeuxippe still found herself smiling when she thought about it. She’d had only one full dance with Captain Dyatlov, but he’d handed her in to supper very politely; she’d only wound up picking at the excellent meal, but the conversation had made up for it. And the Neugebauer sisters had been absolutely _green_ with jealousy! All in all, it had been a smashing success.

(Lieutenant Vasilescu had actually _winked_ at her over Anneliese’s shoulder during a country dance. She’d had to fight hard not to smile.)

After that wonderful evening, returning to her daily routine had been a bit of a letdown. She scrubbed tables and served drinks and waited on customers, and tried to push Captain Dyatlov out of her mind. The dance had been wonderful, but surely Dyatlov was a busy man. She doubted he’d return; the memory would have to be enough.

Oh, but she missed him.

When he came back to the tavern three days after the dance, he wasn’t alone. His friend was introduced very politely as Sergeant Foglio; though he seemed friendly enough, and was certainly not unattractive with his solid build and pale blond hair, the prominently displayed wedding band on his left ring finger meant that not even the most starstruck admirers of one of the heroes of Geister flirted too outrageously. The men took a corner seat at the tavern, ordered a beer each, and began regaling the other patrons with tales of their valor which Zeuxippe suspected were being heavily exaggerated for effect.

She served them quickly, trying (and failing) not to blush when Dyatlov looked her over with a smile. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

Dyatlov lifted his mug to her in a brief toast. “It’s a much better evening now that I see you.”

She glanced away for only a moment before meeting his gaze. “You must have been truly miserable these past three days, without the sight of my face to cheer you.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but the next table was waving her over for refills so she swept off without checking to see if his eyes followed her. She certainly hadn’t been the only woman he’d flirted with at the Neugebauer’s dance (even if she’d been the only one he seemed to genuinely laugh with) (even if she’d caught him making unmistakable _rescue me_ eyes at Vasilescu when the Neugebauer sisters cornered him and all but begged for stories of his heroism), so his sweet talk now didn’t—couldn’t—really mean anything.

(Once her circuit had brought her to the other side of the room, out of earshot, Ognian grinned at him. “It doesn’t look like she’s interested, Maxim. You must be losing your touch.”

Maxim punched him in the arm.)

Though she was busy, she still found her eyes drifting over to the corner table. Perhaps not all the rumors about him were true; though he drained his beer quickly enough (and tipped her handsomely when she refilled it), those were the only two drinks he had that night. When a brief argument broke out at another table, he watched with mild interest but didn’t move to join in, even when one of the men was knocked against his chair and her grandfather had to step out from behind the bar and pointedly drag both parties in the squabble outside by their ears.

He repeated the pattern the next night, and the next—flirting without being unseemly, teasing in the manner of a man who expected nothing. She cornered her friends in their homes and in the streets, and they agreed with her that it was passing strange. If he was courting her, he would surely have appeared in her parlor and asked to speak with her grandfather (who thumped him on the shoulder in greeting and called him _Maxim_ instead of _Captain Dyatlov_ ); if he was truly crass enough to be only after a dalliance, he would have been far more overt in his advances.

Even Anneliese, the most cunning of them all when it came to men, shook her head in puzzlement. “And he’s made no advances towards you?”

She bit her lip, shaking her head. “Not…advances, as such. He’s been very polite!”

Her eyes narrowed. “But?”

But he grinned at her. But his eyes gleamed wickedly when he actually managed to make her blush. But he sprawled in his seat in a manner she would absolutely swear was designed to show off the snug fit of his breeches. Zeuxippe huffed grumpily. “He…really is _very_ handsome.”

Anneliese raised an eyebrow delicately. “I fail to see the problem here.”

The problem was that he refused to state his intentions. He showed up in the tavern, respectably-married friend frequently in tow, and made not one single advance. When she caught his eyes sliding over her body and “accidentally” spilled some of his beer onto his shirt, he even had the nerve to laugh. (Even worse, it was a nice laugh.)

One crowded night, the tavern was packed enough that she had a harder job than usual maneuvering between tables. As she set their beers down, already off-balance, a passing patron bumped her hard enough that she stumbled into Captain Dyatlov’s lap and nearly dropped her tray.

She froze. He’d held her close when they’d danced, but that was nothing compared to actually _touching_ him. He was warm and solid and very strong, and one of his arms had wound up at her waist seemingly by accident. She squeaked. “Uh.”

He released her with a murmured, “My apologies. Are you alright?”

Now bright red, she righted herself and made a show of patting her hair back into place. “I’m…quite alright, thank you. Only a little startled.”

“Good.”

Oh, the man was horrible—she recognized the gleam in his eye as being the one tipsier customers got before making a truly crass remark, probably something about wanting to pull her into his lap himself. She thwacked his arm lightly and moved on to the next table.

(Ognian watched her go, turning to Maxim with a smirk. “No comments, I see?”

Maxim gave his dearest friend a particularly nasty glare. “What sort of comments should I have? It’s not like she jumped into my lap of her own accord.”

“Hrm, yeah.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “Normally, you’d have at least one suggestion regarding that. In fact, _normally_ you’d be trying to talk her into bed by now. She’s certainly your type where looks are concerned.”

He huffed grumpily. “It’s not like that.”

“Not like that? Then what is it like?” Oggie’s eyes glinted with cheerful wickedness. “Could it be that you’re finally joining the ranks of respectability? What’s next, shall I stand up at your weddi—oof, Maxim, you didn’t have to _punch_ me.”)


	4. A Matter of Honor, or An Officer and a Gentleman

It had been two weeks since the ball, and the 10th Light Jaegercavalry was still in town. At least, parts of them were; she’d seen Lieutenant Vasilescu in the street and had bumped into Lieutenant Moraru at the Tomescu’s bakery. And then there was Captain Dyatlov, who’d become a regular fixture in the tavern even after his friend had gone back to active duty. She frequently felt his eyes watching her as she moved through the room, but she (mostly) managed not to look back. (He always flashed her a smile when she did, and it made her heart flutter dangerously.)

Anyway, she had other customers and didn’t have the time to focus on Dyatlov, fluttering heart or not. Lieutenant Ionel Nikolescu of the local militia was back from his honeymoon. The wedding hadn’t changed him one bit. He still drank, and he still strode in surrounded by his bachelor friends—disreputable rakes all, but _wealthy_ disreputable rakes which might have made them desirable to young ladies of good standing if the Jaegercavalry hadn’t been around.

And he still flirted shamelessly with her once he’d had a few beers. As she passed, he leaned over and wrapped an arm around her waist, tugging her straight onto his knee. “Zeuxippe, my darling! Did you miss me?”

She froze at his crassness, too stunned to react. Her grandfather had stepped out from behind the bar to have a “discussion” (argument) with the cook; he wouldn’t hear her from the kitchen if she yelled for him. “Sir, I must protest this treatment! You are a married man now.”

He had the nerve to pat her hip. “The wife’s not here, is she? And you’re prettier than her, anyway.”

His friends snickered; one of them—Petru, she thought—had the gall to remark, “Divorce her, marry Zeuzi. I’m sure old Themiscyra won’t object.”

“Ah, but my _wife_ is _rich_.” He shrugged casually. “A man of means needs a wife to suit his station. Don’t be upset, Zeuxippe; I’ll be sure to give you plenty of good things to show off to your little friends.”

Zeuxippe wondered how much trouble she’d be in if she smashed her tray across Ionel’s face in the middle of the crowded tavern. Probably a lot. (If nothing else, she’d have to replace the tray.) Struggling to maintain at least the outward appearance of decorum, she tried to extricate herself. “Let me _go_.”

She was vaguely aware of someone making their way across the tavern towards them, but Ionel’s smirk was a much more immediate concern. “Give me a kiss and I just might—”

Dyatlov’s voice sliced through his as sharply as a sword. “You, sir, are an absolute _cad_. You have besmirched this lady’s honor, and this will not stand! Meet me outside.”

Ionel stared at him. So did Zeuxippe, heart suddenly beating much faster. She’d thought she’d seen him angry at their first meeting, but this moment was rapidly making her realize that she’d been mistaken; Dyatlov’s eyes were as cold as ice, and the way his hand rested on his sword hilt suggested he was a heartbeat away from drawing it. It should have been terrifying. If she was one of the gently-bred ladies that made up the Neugebauers’ main social circle—the ladies who tolerated her lowly presence only because the number of young women in their age group who were actual _gentry_ was so small—she might have swooned.

It was exhilarating.

Ionel was much less impressed. As he looked him over, he actually had the gall to snort. “Ah, Captain Dyatlov. Here to steal away all of our women?”

Dyatlov tensed, grip tightening on his sword. “She’s not your woman. On your feet, you drunken ill-bred lout, and _meet me outside_.”

He raised an eyebrow, but he did—thankfully—let Zeuxippe go. “Are you challenging me to a duel, _sir?_ ”

The captain nodded, jaw clenched. Zeuxippe could see a twitch starting near his temple.

Ionel got to his feet a little unsteadily, putting a hand to his own sword. “Very well, then! To first blood, and when I win, you won’t interfere.”

Dyatlov growled. “When _I_ win, you’ll apologize to Miss Themiscyra, and you’ll never so much as even speak to her again.”

Zeuxippe looked from one to the other, feeling her face heat up. “Captain Dyatlov…”

Dyatlov’s demeanor softened slightly as he glanced at her. “Never fear, Miss Themiscyra. The day I can’t thrash a disrespectful boor like this man is the day they bury me, and I’m not dead yet!”

“We’ll see about that.”

As they strode out into the street, Zeuxippe patted her hair back into place and took a deep breath. She should get back to work. She really should. But most of her patrons were crowding the windows and placing their bets, so taking a break to watch Captain Dyatlov duel for her honor was only appropriate. Hesitantly, she approached the window; old Herr Bauer obligingly moved so she could see.

When both men drew their swords, passers-by stopped to stare. Zeuxippe knew nothing of swordplay, but she could tell that Ionel was outclassed. It was borne out by the fight; Dyatlov parried his first swing neatly, slid past his attempt at blocking, and left a slash in Ionel’s sleeve. For a moment, she worried it had only hit fabric and air, but then she saw the blood.

Ionel growled, one hand going to his injured arm. “You absolute bastard.”

Dyatlov grinned at him. “You, sir, are a terribly sore loser. Now, I believe there’s a lady inside you should apologize to?”

“You—” If looks could kill, Ionel’s skill with a sword wouldn’t have mattered. Turning on his heel, he stormed back inside, eyes scanning the crowd until they met Zeuxippe’s.

She couldn’t help but smirk. “Yes, Lieutenant Nikolescu?”

He dropped his gaze. “I…apologize. For my conduct.”

“What’s going on here?” Oh, good. Her grandfather had escaped his discussion with the kitchen staff. Even better, he looked highly unamused.

“Oh, old man, really it was nothing—”

Dyatlov lounged casually in the doorway, idly tapping the blade of his sword against the frame. “This cad offered some offense to your granddaughter. I taught him the error of his ways.”

Her grandfather’s gaze snapped to her instantly, and he looked her over critically before informing Ionel, “Pay your tab and get out. I don’t want to see you in my tavern again.”

Ionel almost looked like he was going to argue, but after a moment’s frustrated glaring he pulled out his coin purse and all but threw the money at him. “I’ll find somewhere better to drink. With me, gentlemen—this place grows stale.”  

As they left (grumbling all the while), her grandfather pocketed his earnings and approached Captain Dyatlov. “Thank you for defending my granddaughter—and for getting rid of my most annoying customers! Your drinks are on the house today.”

Judging by the expression on his face, Dyatlov hadn’t been expecting that. He nodded anyway. “I could do nothing else, Sergeant.”

“What’s this, you learned modesty? Who _are_ you, really?” He was smiling, though, as he turned to Zeuxippe. “Are you alright, Zeuzi?”

Really, she _did_ want to sit down. But… She cast a glance at the still-very-full tavern. “I’m fine, Grandpa.”

Fifteen minutes’ worth of delivering beer and sausages and thick-cut sandwiches later, Dyatlov signaled her for a refill. She took her chance as well as the empty chair at his table, though she abruptly found herself unable to fully meet his gaze. Her voice lowered so that their conversation wouldn’t reach any of the nearby patrons. “You didn’t have to come to my defense like that, Captain.”

He snorted—a rude thing to do, but it struck her as perfectly honest. His own voice was less quiet, but he seemed to be making an effort. “It was the right thing to do. The man was a complete lout—I couldn’t very well stand back and let you be manhandled.”

That was gallant of him, but it left her feeling slightly nettled. “I can handle myself.”

“What were you going to do to him?”

He actually sounded genuinely interested, and she realized that she was at a loss how to answer. She’d spoken to many men, but never on topics like this. “I. Um. I…I’m not sure.”

He picked up the knife he’d been using on his dinner, wiping it clean with a napkin. “If it happens again, Miss Themiscyra, I suggest you stab him.”

For a moment, all she could do was stare at him. “… _What?!_ ”

“Not fatally! Or even very hard, necessarily—look.” He slipped the knife into her hand, fingers sliding warm against hers. “You hold it like this. I’d recommend aiming for the extremities—getting stabbed in the finger won’t kill anyone, but it’s very painful.”

She swallowed hard, acutely conscious of the pressure of his hand on hers. His words should have appalled her; respectable young women certainly weren’t supposed to do anything as violent as his suggestions. But then again, considering their first meeting she rather doubted he thought of her as respectable. And…well, it was _exciting_ knowing that he thought her fully capable of defending herself. She tightened her grip on the knife. “And…if he is still not deterred?”

His eyes gleamed as he dropped his voice again, leaning closer. A small part of her wondered how intimate they might look to anyone glancing at their table, but a larger part was distracted by the way her heart skipped a beat when he responded, “You’re a very resourceful young woman, Miss Themiscyra. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

They were in the middle of a crowded, well-lit tavern. They’d only known each other a scant few weeks, and then only as acquaintances. He had a reputation as a rake and a drunkard and a brawler, and she had no interest in marrying the sort of man she’d have to break her back trying (and probably failing) to reform.

She almost didn’t care. He was looking at her like that—like she really _could_ make her own way out of any difficulties—and she wanted to kiss him. She wanted to tell him to call her Zeuxippe. Heart hammering in her chest, she met his eyes and knew, absolutely knew, that he’d kiss her back.

And then she stood up, gently disentangling their fingers and giving him back his knife. “Thank you for protecting my honor, Captain Dyatlov. And for your advice. It was…enlightening.”

Maxim grinned at her. “It was my pleasure.”


	5. Priorities, or An Amusing Case of Erroneous Assumptions

After the duel, things began to change around town. It was nothing very dire—Zeuxippe was not suddenly shunned—but she thought the young men she met were being just a smidge more polite than they had been. Nobody in the tavern dared to lay a hand on her now even when Captain Dyatlov— _Maxim_ —wasn’t in his chair by the corner. (Granted, they hadn’t particularly tried before, but now even the occasional tipsy leers dwindled away.) It was wonderful.

Not as wonderful as actually _talking_ to Maxim, though. She didn’t dare take too much time away from her other customers, but she quickly discovered that there were plenty of opportunities for her to take small breaks, and if she just happened to lean on the edge of his table or sink into an empty seat for a moment…well, what was the harm in that? It wasn’t even as though anyone could call their talk flirtatious; though he didn’t bring up knives again, he was perfectly willing to keep the conversation flicking from topics as innocuous as the weather (beastly) to the likelihood of her teaching his regiment’s cook her recipe for pork schnitzel (not unless the man pried it from her corpse) whether he’d really killed two dozen men at the battle of Geister (surprisingly, no).

Anyway, it wasn’t even his words that made her heart beat faster. It was the fact that he listened to hers.

He wasn’t there every day. She didn’t expect him to be, but somehow not seeing him made the tavern feel a little darker. It absolutely did _not_ help when his usual seat was occupied by Lieutenant Vasilescu, who unlike his captain drank quite a bit more than was seemly.

And who, also unlike his captain, was an absolutely shameless flirt. He waved her over with a grin for more beer and a cheery “Miss Themiscyra! Lovely as ever, I see.”

She set his beer down with a sniff. “I’d imagine you say that to all the young ladies, Lieutenant .”

He shrugged carelessly. “Ah, but all the young ladies are not so beautiful as you. Why, I daresay you’re the prettiest in the town.”

She didn’t even try to hide the rolling of her eyes. There was no point. “Sir, I do believe you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Nonsense!” He took a long swig as if to prove it, gesturing animatedly with his spare hand. “I’m as sober as a judge, I assure you. You’re as lovely and light on your feet here as you were at the ball; such a pity we had only the one dance, but it is a memory I’ve held close to my heart ever since.”

Her face heated. She remembered that dance…well, _half_ a dance. Half a dance of the lieutenant teasing her with rumors of Maxim’s affections for her before all but throwing her into the man’s arms. “You must have a great many memories held close to your heart, sir, because as I recall you danced with every eligible young lady there. Some of them _twice_.”

His eyes gleamed. “Ah, but none of them have seared themselves into my mind like you.”

“Hrmph!” She had other customers to tend to; it was as good an excuse as any to turn away without another word. The absolute _nerve_ of the man.

All too soon, he was signaling her for another refill. She was starting to wonder if he even tasted his beer. “Oh, Miss? A question for you.”

“…What?”

He smiled at her. “The theater in Mechanicsburg is performing Romeo and Juliet this year; would you like to attend? With me, naturally.”

She huffed. “Sir, I thank you for your kind offer, but even if I did not have other considerations, I still would not go with _you_.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Other considerations? Do you have a lover, then?”

She went red. “I—well, not precisely, but…”

“Well, he’s clearly not here right now, or no doubt he’d have strong words or the point of a sword for me. So…” Vasilescu’s eyes gleamed. “Miss Zeuxippe. The theater, tomorrow night?”

Suddenly very fed up, Zeuxippe poked him hard in the chest. “Sir, you are entirely too familiar—” Wait. That wasn’t solid, unyielding muscle under his uniform coat, and he was far too slender for it to be fat. She stared at him, all the little strangenesses of his form—the height, the build, the voice—rearranging themselves in her mind. “…”

Vasilescu stared back at her; at her expression, he—she?—went so pale that her freckles stood out like inkspots.

Zeuxippe managed a hiss of “You’re a—”

Vasilescu’s eyes turned hard. “There are no girls in the army, Miss Themiscyra.”

“…But…” She straightened up, shaking her head a little as though that would clear it. “ _Why?_ ”

She relaxed, smirking. “Why, to meet lovely young ladies like yourself, like any other _young man_. But I can see we’re just not fated to be, Miss Themiscyra. I suppose if I have to lose such a vision of loveliness, you could certainly do worse than Captain Dyatlov.”

Zeuxippe knew she must be crimson. “I—you—the captain and I—it’s not like that at all!”

“Mm-hmm.” Vasilescu’s smirk grew to a grin. “Then I suppose you won’t want my advice where he’s concerned.”

Despite herself, Zeuxippe realized she was a little curious. “What sort of advice could _you_ give me?”

“We’re shipping out soon—border patrol to the west. He didn’t tell you, I take it—I doubt he’d have time, we’ve had to run around like a pack of headless chickens getting everything ready after lazing about on leave like we’ve been.”

Oh. She felt her heart sink. The western border of the Heterodyne lands was far; she wouldn’t see Maxim for weeks at least. She knew he wouldn’t write; it simply wasn’t _done_. He might, barely, think to keep in touch with her grandfather, but they wouldn’t be letters for _her_. She shrugged, keeping her tone light. “Thank you for informing me, but I don’t see what this has to do with—”

Vasilescu leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Look, as one girl to another? My captain will _miss_ you. If you would like to give him any tokens or sweet parting words to let him know that you return his affections, you’ll want to pass them on to me tonight because we leave the day after tomorrow and we might not be back until July.”

Zeuxippe stared at her. “I…” She wasn’t in _love_ with Maxim—at least, she didn’t think she was—but he was brave and dashing and kind and handsome and (if Vasilescu was to be believed) he’d actually miss her presence while he was out in the field defending Mechanicsburg. Abruptly, his impending long absence felt like a fist in her gut.

She sat back in her chair. “I’ll be here until your grandfather throws me out, so please try to come up with an answer by then.”

By the time the lanterns dimmed and her grandfather was forcibly evicting the drunker or lazier patrons (Vasilescu among them), Zeuxippe still hadn’t found any words to pass on to Maxim. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.


	6. Uncommon Familiarity Occasioned By An Unfortunate Event

June slid into July, and the weather grew warmer. The Red Horse sold more beer and less food; Zeuxippe might have experimented with making lighter meals, but after working over a hot fire with the cook for hours she wasn’t inclined to do it a moment longer. At least the tavern was reasonably comfortable when they opened all the windows to get a breeze.

No letters arrived. She refused to let herself dwell on it. Maxim was busy and the borders were far; besides, what were they to each other? They weren’t courting, and he’d made no offers. Friendly or not, no gentleman would address personal correspondence to a young, unmarried woman so far below his station—and Maxim, as much as his eyes slid over her form when he thought she wasn’t looking, _was_ a gentleman. She hadn’t really expected to hear from him.

Still, it might have been nice.

Mid-July was hot and sunny, but by the time the bar closed it was cool enough to be bearable. The fire in the chimney had died down to embers; with the lamps in need of trimming, she did most of her cleaning in shadow. And alone, since her grandfather had stomped upstairs to bed grumbling about his arthritis. It wasn’t so bad, actually. She had plenty of time to think (about their expenses, and the quality of the beer they were getting, and about whether Domnica was _really_ going to let herself be courted by the butcher’s son. Not _(just)_ about Maxim. Really, she hardly thought about him at all.) A cricket chirped somewhere in the street. It was quiet, peaceful.

Until a shadow fell across the doorstep.

She looked up sharply, squinting in the gloom. Tall, man-shaped, black hair, jacket and breeches some indefinable dark color. “We are _closed_.”

The man chuckled, and she felt her heart leap into her throat. “You can’t even spare a drop of beer for a poor soldier?”

Her dustrag fell to the table. “Captain Dyatlov. I didn’t expect you. I—please, come in.”

He trudged in heavily, closing the door behind him and throwing himself into the nearest chair hard enough to slide it against the table with a bang. Close up, he looked the worse for wear; his boots were scuffed and dusty, his cravat was loosely and messily tied, and his long hair was mostly tangles. One hand rested inside his jacket. He was smiling, though. “I thought I’d stop by.”

She turned away before he could catch more than the edge of the answering smile on her own face. He wanted beer, after all. And the tap was on the other side of the room, an effective way to deter the sudden urge to embrace him. “Oh, I see. How was your patrol, sir?”

Maxim stretched his legs out, eyes following her as she moved. “Largely uneventful; I’m rather sorry I can’t entertain you with any new tales of my heroism. And yourself? No terrible scandals, unexpected proposals?” His eyes glittered with good humor. “No chances to use the lessons I’ve imparted to you?”

 _Well_ , she thought, _I’ve discovered one of your lieutenants is a girl._ The thought of telling him remained, however, only a thought; as impudent and shameless as Lieutenant Vasilescu was, the woman hadn’t done anything to warrant the consequences of being found out. She didn’t bother hiding her smile this time as she handed him his drink and took the seat opposite his. “I’m afraid not, sir. It’s all been quite dull here without your regiment present. If it helps at all, the other young ladies were perfectly inconsolable to be without a Jaeger presence in town.”

His eyebrows went up as he took a long swig of beer, and she absolutely did _not_ find her eyes lingering on the line of his throat as he swallowed. “You certainly don’t sound like one of them.”

She shrugged, hoping she looked appropriately casual. “Well. _I_ see you rather more frequently than they do, and since you seem to be so fond of this tavern it is hardly as though I’ll never see you again.” Though it had felt like that, sometime around the end of June—but she was not about to tell him that.

“Ah, so you didn’t miss me at all!” Pressing his hand to his chest melodramatically, he sighed, “I am wounded to the core.”

That got a snort out of her before she could stop herself. “I doubt that highly, sir. I’d imagine you must have had much more important things on your mind.”

He shook his head. “Truly, it was _very_ boring. There was hardly even a scuffle over cards to liven things up for most of our deployment.”

Something in his tone made her frown. “…That implies you did see some action. No bloodshed, I hope?”

“Oh, no, not at all!” He lifted his mug; when he set it down, it was nearly empty, and he pouted at it.

She sighed and got to her feet, plucking the mug from his unresisting grasp and bustling over to the tap again. A rustling sound from his corner caught her attention, and she half-turned to see him remove his hand from his jacket and frown contemplatively. His glove was dark, and she had a terrible feeling that in daylight the stain on it would be crimson.

Half-full mug in hand, she darted to his side. Some of the beer spilled as she slammed it down on the table, but she didn’t care. “What happened?”

He jolted back in his seat, staring at her almost sheepishly. “Ah—it’s nothing, merely a scratch—”

As he moved to cover the wound again, she grabbed his wrist. “Show me.”

“Really, it’s nothing to concern yourself with…” But he didn’t resist as she moved his jacket out of the way and gestured for him to unbutton his waistcoat. Something sharp had torn a single bloody rip along his ribs; though the wound looked like it had been cleaned and stitched, it was still oozing.

She glared at him. “That is _not_ a scratch!”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

Anneliese was right. Men really _did_ have all the common sense of overcooked noodles. Quietly fuming, she stomped back behind the bar and pulled out the roll of bandages her grandfather kept there for kitchen accidents and patching up the casualties of bar fights. “You, sir, are _bleeding_. Kindly allow me to tend to you.”

For a moment he still looked as though he was going to argue, but then he met her gaze and very clearly thought better of it. “…As you wish, Miss Themiscyra.”

And then he was shedding jacket and waistcoat and shirt, and she was going to be _professional_ , damn her, even if he was exactly as nicely muscled as she’d thought he was and she suspected (knew) he would not mind if she touched him. (Even in the dim light, she knew he had to be able to see how red her face was.) The sight of the stitches on his ribs curving over older scars kept her focused as she pulled her chair closer and sat next to him; she’d helped tend worse injuries, but this was _Maxim_. The blood was very dark against his skin. “What happened to you?”

This time he huffed grumpily. “You will think less of me.”

She stared flatly at him.

“…” Wincing slightly, he leaned forward so she could start bandaging his wound. “I had a…slight disagreement over dice with some of Wulfenbach’s men. We’d all been drinking rather heavily and, well…words were said which could not be taken back. So this wound is entirely my fault, really.”

Well. That suggested that at least some of the rumors about him were true. Somehow she couldn’t find it in herself to be respectably horrified as she tugged the cloth tighter. “…Captain Dyatlov, you do understand this is a _tavern_. You are not the first man I’ve met who has said something regrettable after a few glasses of brandy and been wounded for it.”

He avoided her gaze, sipping his drink instead. “I’d not have you think of me as another drunken lout.”

“But I don’t!” The outburst seemed to trigger something in her; though she knew he was blinking at her in evident surprise, she couldn’t stop. “Maxim, you’ve never given me cause to think of you as anything less than a perfect gentleman—“ Well, that wasn’t precisely _true_ , but even when she’d rapped his hand with that spoon she hadn’t been thinking of him as a _complete_ ruffian. “—and I am hardly going to abjure your company after one incident. You need not fear your standing in my eyes.”

Now he was staring at her as though she’d slapped him. It took her a moment to realize why, and her face burned hot with shame. She hadn’t meant to be so familiar—what he must _think_ of her now… She quietly thanked God that the lights were dim and the streets deserted; at least nobody had witnessed her flagrant breach of propriety. Her voice wavered anyway. “Ah…that is to say…”

His eyes softened as he looked at her. “I am glad to hear it. I would miss your companionship _dreadfully_ if you were to shun me, Zeuxippe.”

Everything seemed to stop. Zeuxippe was suddenly acutely conscious of where her hands had stalled at his sides, still holding either end of a length of linen; she could feel his heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of his chest, and that was her only inkling that any time was passing at all. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from his, even when the warmth of his hand on her arm seemed to burn through her sleeve. He was leaning forward, and she knew he was going to kiss her. And she wanted to let him (do more than that; the thoughts that burned in the back of her mind whispered _my grandfather sleeps like a log and my bedroom is just upstairs, come with me_ ), propriety be damned.

And then a cat screeched somewhere in the street and the spell was broken. Maxim sat back rigidly, face red, and tossed back a healthy swig of beer. Zeuxippe wished she’d filled a mug for herself. No, beer wasn’t strong enough—this called for a glass of rum. Clearing her throat, she murmured, “Well. Thank you. I would miss you as well, so do try not to get into any more ill-considered fights, yes?”

A faint smile started to flicker across his face. “I will do my very best.”

She tied off the bandage neatly, eyes focused on her work to avoid looking at his face. “There, that should hold, but I’m far from a medic.”

“You’ve done more for me than a score of field doctors.” She could hear the smile in his voice as he drained his mug and set it down. “I…shouldn’t impose on your hospitality any longer.”

Zeuxippe stood up, returning her chair to its proper place. Right. He’d leave now, and the next time she saw him would be in public. She wouldn’t hear him call her “Zeuxippe” again. “You know you’re welcome here anytime, sir.”

His movements were stiff and careful as he shrugged his clothing back on, fumbling slightly with the buttons involved. In the middle of doing up his waistcoat, he remarked, “The Lady Heterodyne is having a ball in Mechanicsburg in the next several weeks to celebrate the anniversary of her ascension. I believe your grandfather may receive an invitation thanks to his service. Might I see you there?”

She flushed. Her one modern dress wouldn’t be nearly good enough for a ball at Castle Heterodyne! But… “Should we be so fortunate as to be invited, I suppose you might.”

He grinned brightly at her. “Then I shall look forward to it.”

Only after he left and she was truly alone did she sit down on the edge of a table, burying her face in her hands with a groan. Lord have mercy, Maxim Dyatlov was going to be the _death_ of her.


	7. A Reputation In Tatters

Zeuxippe had been to Mechanicsburg before, of course, but never like this—and she’d _never_ been inside Castle Heterodyne itself. Stepping into the grand entry room, brilliant with chandeliers and thick-piled carpets to muffle the sound of hundreds of fine shoes on stone, was more of a shock then she’d thought. She cast a glance around her at the women’s gowns and was desperately glad that she and her friends had spent the weeks leading up to the ball sewing madly to get her gown finished in time; though it had surely been much cheaper, she could see that Anneliese’s skill was the equal of any of the fine dressmakers patronized by the other guests. The color—deep red silk—wasn’t especially fashionable, but it drew attention to the ivory lace trim edging the tiny puff sleeves and the low neckline. And as one of the few women not wearing the pale lacy frocks that were all the rage, she stood out. Maxim couldn’t possibly miss her.

By her side, her grandfather was much less conspicuous. He’d unearthed a slightly worn black suit from somewhere—she suspected her parents’ funeral—and was eying the crowd with an expression that suggested he thought a fight was going to break out. “It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been here. They’ve cleaned the place up a lot.”

She turned to look down at him. “Have they?”

“Oh, you were only a baby when Old Lord Heterodyne was killed, you don’t remember—” Her grandfather waved a hand, indicating draperies and candles and mirrors in one lazy motion. “The Lady’s ancestors had…different tastes. More suits of armor, more trophies. No carpets. Cigar smoke _everywhere_.”

She winced at the thought. “Goodness.”

Ahead of them, the butler was announcing a noble couple who were both wearing more jewels than Zeuxippe had ever seen. She nervously fiddled with her pearl necklace as her grandfather led her across the floor and murmured their names to the man with the guest list.

The butler’s voice seemed much louder somehow when he called out, “Sergeant Archippos Themiscyra and Miss Zeuxippe Themiscyra!”

In a novel, Zeuxippe thought the music would stop, and people would turn to stare as they made their way down the steps leading to the ballroom. Of course, in a novel, she would have been escorted by someone tall and handsome and dashing, instead of by her old grandfather. Someone like…

She kept her back straight, head held high, as they descended the grand staircase, and did _not_ think about Maxim. Not yet, not when he’d made no promises and she had only the best guess as to how he truly felt.

As they joined the other guests, Zeuxippe found her eyes resting on a familiar face (made briefly unfamiliar by the addition of the uniform of a Jaeger infantryman below it, when she’d usually seen him in much less fine clothing) and offered Sergeant Foglio a smile. He smiled politely back.

Her grandfather had less patience for the rules of society, and tugged her along as he went to greet the younger man with a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Ognian! Good to see you, it’s been ages—Marica, girl, you haven’t thrown him out of the house yet? This is my granddaughter Zeuxippe—Zeuxippe, you know Sergeant Foglio, this is his wife.”

So _this_ was Sergeant Foglio’s wife. The women curtseyed to each other, and Zeuxippe took a moment to study her. Smaller than she was, with pale blonde hair that clearly needed no rag rollers or papers to curl fetchingly, Mrs. Foglio looked fragile until Zeuxippe noticed the strength in her arms that couldn’t be hidden by long gloves. It would have been most unbecoming on a young lady of wealth and means, but it made Zeuxippe warm to her instantly.

She knew she’d judged rightly when the woman cracked a smile at her grandfather’s words. “We have five daughters, Sergeant Themiscyra. _Someone_ has to feed them.”

Sergeant Foglio nodded. “I was stationed by Sturmhalten for the last month, but news of the ball brought me back. I couldn’t miss a chance to see my old friends—do you know, someone even persuaded Dimo to come!” He paused. “…Though I hadn’t expected to see you here, Sergeant. I was given to understand you were busy with your work.”

“ _Somehow_ , an invitation arrived at my door. I was hardly going to turn it down, with my granddaughter still unmarried.” He glanced up at Zeuxippe, and she flushed. Was it her imagination, or was his gaze sharper than that warranted by concern over her prospects?

A flash of vivid crimson drew her eye, and her heart leapt as she turned to see Maxim making his way across the floor. His pace was slow, however, and as quickly as her heart had leapt, it sank when she saw that he was surrounded by a twittering, flirting cloud of well-dressed young women in diamonds and white silk. Of course he’d be sought after, at a ball like this.

“Oh, Miss Tomescu, you are very kind—oh, but I must greet my friends. Forgive me!” He pulled himself away from his admirers, meeting Zeuxippe’s gaze with a directness that made her heart thump hard against her ribs. As he took in her attire, she was fairly sure his eyes widened, but—well. She really wasn’t looking. She’d thought the uniform he wore to the Neugebauer’s dance had been his dress uniform, but now she realized she’d been mistaken. _This_ uniform was much finer, edged and adorned with gold braid in addition to the red accents, and the medals pinned over his heart gleamed in the light of the chandeliers. It was just as well tailored, though, and now that she’d seen some of the body underneath it she had to try very hard to think chaste thoughts.

And he was greeting Sergeant Foglio and her grandfather, and then bowing low over her hand. “Miss Themiscyra, you look stunning.”

She knew she was smiling wider than was proper, but she couldn’t help herself. “Thank you for the compliment, Captain Dyatlov.”

As he straightened up, an expression of worry sidled onto his face as though it had been only lately displaced. His voice was a low murmur she had to strain to hear. “I find myself in need of your aid.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

The band struck up a lively quadrille, and Maxim’s grip tightened minutely on her hand. “May I have this dance?”

Regardless of the strangeness of the situation, there was only one response she ever wanted to give to that question. “Of course.”

Dancing with Maxim was just as wonderful as it had been the last time, and he held her just as carefully. This time, however, she felt bold enough to press closer. It was only partly so she could lean up and ask in a whisper “What’s the matter?”

He huffed quietly, eyes darting around the room before returning to her face. “These women will eat me alive. I think every marriageable woman in three kingdoms must be here, and if they don’t have their sights set on a peer they must think a Jaeger officer is the next best thing.”

She considered this for a moment as they danced. “Aren’t some of your lieutenants also unmarried?”

He made a wry face. “They are, and I thank God for that, but they’re terribly uninteresting to the worst of my hunters—they rose up through the ranks, you see. So—I will swear this to you on my mother’s grave—all the nobility and gentlewomen in the land must have decided to settle for _me_. The Marquise von Zumzum—there, in the green satin and emeralds—she has been hounding me since I arrived.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “…And what do you want me to do about it?”

“…Dance with me? At least one more.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the look of hope on his face. A nasty little voice in the back of her mind whispered _he’s only doing this to avoid being tricked into a worse match, you know he would be marrying down if he married you_ , but she ruthlessly ignored it. Even if it went nowhere, even if their flirtations came to nothing, she could do this to help him.

And she would have her happiness, even for one night. She didn’t smile, but met his questioning gaze with a fierce one of her own. “I would be glad to.”

Really, if nothing else, he was a wonderful dancer. She’d been partnered with men who tripped over not just her feet but their own as well; being able to go through the steps without worrying that she was going to stumble or damage her dress was a veritable dream. And there was something _safe_ about being in his arms.

All too soon, the music ended; however, the next dance didn’t start right away. Several of the highest-ranking guests had clearly chosen to be fashionably late, and the butler’s voice rang out over the chatter and gossip as he announced, “Baron Klaus Wulfenbach, the Honourable Gilgamesh Wulfenbach,” “His Majesty Aaronev Tarvek I, Storm King,” and—after a pause that somehow managed to sound grudging even when his tone hadn’t changed in the least—“Duke Martellus von Blitzengaard, of the Refuge of Storms.”

As Lady Heterodyne came forward, brilliant in her golden gown, to greet the newcomers, Maxim grimaced. “Well. This should be…interesting.”

“You don’t approve.”

He indicated the grouping of nobility at the base of the stairs with a jerk of his head. “All three of those young men seek to marry Lady Heterodyne. I’ve had occasion to meet them in the past; the Baron and his son are good men, and His Majesty would be a fine match for her, but…” He shook his head. “His Grace the Duke is _not_ a gentleman, I fear.”

Zeuxippe studied them. The other suitors for the Heterodyne's hand were attractive in their own ways—Baron Wulfenbach's son was tall, square-jawed, and strongly-built, and he gazed at Lady Heterodyne as though she set the sun in the sky even though his father seemed about to roll his eyes at his clear adoration. The Storm King had a handsome face and eyes that sparkled with intelligence behind his spectacles; as he spoke to their lady, Zeuxippe saw her laugh. Next to them, Duke von Blitzengaard looked like a red ape in a fancy suit, and Zeuxippe disliked him on sight. Even from afar, Lady Heterodyne seemed just as unimpressed with the familiar manner in which he took her hand in both of his.

When he raised her hand to his lips and she all but yanked it back with a face like stone, Maxim stiffened. “That _cad_.”

Zeuxippe noted this with faint alarm, resting a hand on his arm. “Captain Dyatlov, no.”

He huffed, but did not pull away. “Should I let him get away with disrespecting our lady?”

“Well, you can’t _duel_ him.” At his frustrated glare, she narrowed her eyes at him. “He is a duke, he is under no obligation of honor to answer your challenge. You _know_ this. You’ll only get in trouble, and I could not stand by and watch that happen.”

For a moment, he seemed about to protest, but shut his mouth instead. “…As always, Miss Themiscyra, your quick thinking surpasses my own.”

The band struck up again; this dance was a minuet, and as Gilgamesh Wulfenbach led Lady Heterodyne onto the floor, Maxim offered Zeuxippe his hand again. “Shall we? I must warn you, though, I am slightly out of practice at the minuet.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “As am I, sir, so you shall have no pressure.”

The minuet took up most of her concentration, but as the music swelled she managed to ask, “How are you feeling?”

His eyes gleamed. “Tolerably well. Of course, if you’re concerned for my wound and would like to inspect it more thoroughly…”

The nerve! (Well, he was right, but _still_.) She swatted his hand, glaring at him. “You are too bold, Captain.”

“My apologies.” As the minuet ended and a waltz began, he did not let her go.

And she did not step away. She should, she _knew_ she should, her grandfather was probably watching with shock if he hadn’t been sufficiently distracted by his old Army friends, but she let Maxim lead her into another dance anyway. This time he held her close, close enough that if she dared she might have laid her head on his shoulder as they waltzed. Close enough that she could see the way his pulse beat in his neck as he looked at her. When she met his eyes, the heat in them made her blush.

Too soon, the waltz ended and the band struck up another. He let her go and stepped away, gaze flicking past her to somewhere around the drapery around the edge of the ballroom. A faint flush colored his cheeks. “…Might I…have the honor of another, Miss Themiscyra?”

They’d had three dances. This would be their fourth. Other eager young ladies were starting to gather, eying Maxim hungrily. The Marquise von Zumzum looked like a cat that had scented a mouse. Zeuxippe bit her lip, looked up into his face, and stepped forward to take his offered hand. “Of course, Captain Dyatlov.”

Scandalized whispers erupted around them like a hundred birds taking off at once, but she ignored them. Damn the damage to her reputation, she would do this—not only for him, but because she wanted to. They might never have this chance again.

When the dance ended and the young women watching them started advancing, she knew she had to act quickly. Taking his hand, she gazed up at him through her lashes. “I hear the gardens are lovely this time of year.”

He was starting to smile. “I would be honored to escort you.”

Massive double doors had indeed been left open on one side of the ballroom, and one of Castle Heterodyne’s many gardens beckoned. This one seemed to be dedicated to night-blooming flowers; as she and Maxim walked, too many scents to identify hung in the air. It was beautiful and still, though she knew they couldn’t be the only couple to have chosen to find a bit of privacy.

Even though they weren’t a couple, and Maxim’s arm was tense under her hand. When they’d walked far enough from the noise of the ballroom to avoid being overheard, he remarked (in a tone that was desperately aiming for “casual” but missed it by kilometers), “I was given to understand that your good reputation mattered highly to you. It certainly does to _me_. I would not see your respectability tarnished by this association with me.”

She kept her gaze on the path ahead. It would not do to trip over a loose rock or bit of gravel. “It has not so far been tarnished by your appearances in my tavern. I do not think one dance more or less will ruin me.”

“It was not _just_ one dance.” As they passed under a shower of night-blooming jasmine, he stopped and turned to face her, looking into her eyes. “I…”

Whatever emotions were in his face, there were too many for her to read. She met his gaze steadily and unflinchingly, ignoring the way her heart hammered against her ribs. “Maxim, I do not _care_. I care about you—and if you return my sentiments, then my respectability can go _burn_.”

He sucked in a breath as though he’d been stabbed again, eyes never leaving her face as his hands came to rest lightly at her hips. Though they were not otherwise touching, the heat of it made her shiver. “Zeuxippe, I…I cannot be a good prospect for you. I wish I was, but I…my family…” His next breath, as he shook his head slightly, was steadier. “Damn it all.”

She leaned up towards him, one hand reaching to cup his cheek, and wished fervently that she was not wearing gloves. “They can’t be more embarrassing than a tavernkeeper.”

A faint smile flitted across his face. “Oh, you…have _no_ idea…”

He leaned down to meet her, and Zeuxippe felt her breath catch in her throat as he tugged her closer, arms sliding securely around her waist. This time, surely, there would be no interruptions. This time she would be able to show him how she felt, and see how ardently he returned her sentiment. Her eyes slid closed in anticipation.

Just as his lips almost brushed hers, a woman’s voice rang out, brittle with tones of false surprise. “Why, Captain Dyatlov, so _this_ is where you’ve ran off to.”

They sprang apart; Zeuxippe was grateful for the darkness hiding her embarrassment. Maxim looked about as mortified as she felt, but bowed politely anyway. “Lady Zumzum. What a surprise to run into you here.”

She smiled thinly. “I was in need of some fresh air. How fortunate, though, that I have met you, for it gives me the chance to extend my congratulations on your engagement to Miss…Thimsyra, was it? Simply _everyone’s_ talking about it.” She looked over Zeuxippe coolly. “I suppose you must truly adore her; I hope your family feels the same.”

 _Engagement?!_ Zeuxippe thought for a moment that she might actually swoon, right there on the garden path.

Maxim’s voice was cold. “It is Miss Themiscyra, and I am blessed to know her. I thank you for your congratulations, Lady Zumzum.”

And the marquise was still smiling, seemingly taking no notice of his tone. “You’re quite welcome. I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

As she turned and left, Zeuxippe forced herself to take deep breaths. Her grandfather would be _furious_ ; he seemed to like Maxim well enough as a person, but she doubted he’d approve of them courting, never mind whatever this was between them.

Maxim turned to her, stricken. “Zeuxippe—Miss Themiscyra—I’m sorry. Please accept my apologies—”

“It’s…” It wasn’t fine. It absolutely was not anywhere in the general neighborhood of fine. She pulled away from him. “I have to find my grandfather. You should—you should stay away for a while, probably. I’ll let you know.”

He nodded slowly. “Of course.”

She didn’t run—even aside from being unladylike, she couldn’t run in her dancing shoes—but she made up for it by walking very briskly back inside. Her grandfather had found a wall to lean against and a glass of champagne to sip, and he looked up at her approach. “What did he do?”

She stopped, blinking. “Um. What?”

“Captain Maxim Dyatlov. You left the ballroom with him, I’m hearing people saying you two are engaged, and now you’re coming back with a face on you that looks like you’re heading to your doom. So. Do I need to kill him?”

She flushed. “No, no! But we’re—we’re _not_ engaged, Grandfather. I danced with him because he asked me to, but he’s—we’ve made no promises to each other. Unless he somehow found time to come to you and ask…you’re laughing.”

Indeed, her grandfather was barely holding back a chuckle. “Zeuxippe, it’s alright. Dyatlov doesn’t deserve you, but if you like him that well, I won’t stand between you. Just…be careful, eh? As long as I’ve known him, that boy’s been running from something.”

His words made her frown. “What do you mean?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it again at the sound of a crash from across the room, followed by a woman’s shocked gasp and a man’s snarl of “ _Keep your hands off her!_ ”

Zeuxippe elbowed her way through the crowd, grandfather close behind, just in time to see Gilgamesh Wulfenbach punch Duke von Blitzengaard in the face. Lady Heterodyne looked shocked (and delighted) as the Storm King stepped protectively between her and what very quickly turned into a rather physical altercation.

The minor scandal of Zeuxippe’s apparent engagement was rather forgotten after that, apparently.


End file.
